How to Keep Your Child From Failing Math

Don't let the title scare you!

When I tell people that DH is a math teacher I get a couple reactions, from admiration to the more common confession that they are terrified of math. I know many of you struggle to help your kids, and even wonder how you can keep them doing well in math as they progress.

The first thing I'd tell you is to stop telling yourself that you're "bad" at math. It would be unacceptable for you to go around telling people that you're "bad" at reading, "bad" at writing, and "bad" at driving. You keep that to yourself, because just like negative body image, your kid will pick that up right away.

The second thing that we see is preventable; it's something so simple, so basic, that if you make sure your kids knows it, they will be equipped to handle the math coming down the road...story first:

DH had a long conversation with a parent recently, a parent who was extremely upset at him because their child had 100% on all their math homework, yet scored 25% on the tests. The parent was furious, demanding an answer from him on why their child was failing despite having perfect homework.

DH pulled out the homework; it was full of correct answers--answers...but no work shown. He said he didn’t want to accuse any student of cheating when there’s always room for divine intervention--intervention that happened to desert the child during tests. So, DH made an offer: if the child could set up a problem from any of the homework, not solve, just set up the work, he’d be happy to grant the child an “A.” The child burst into tears. The parent soon grasped the picture.

What’s more, DH said, can you tell me what 7 times 8 is? The child thought for a few minutes and answered “42” then after another minute “56.” Here’s the problem, DH said, you never learned your times tables when you were supposed to, and I bet that every teacher after that allowed you to use a calculator until now, is that right? The child nodded. I suspect that you and your child will have a different type of summer activity planned soon, DH said to the parent.

So how do you help your kids with math, even if you feel inadequate to do so? The very first step is to make sure they have memorized the addition and multiplication tables. Every double digit addition and subtraction in their head. Every multiplication and division in their head. They should be able to answer instantaneously, with zero lag time. They should be able to do this by the 4th grade. If your child can't, you know where to start. Your kid should also be able to to count up to the 12th multiple for the first 12 counting numbers--i.e. 12, 24, 36, 48, etc, all the way up to 144 and back again without an “uhm” or a breath.

How do these things help? Instead of trying to figure out how the numbers all fit together, your kids will be able to concentrate on the problem in front of them. If you can make sure your child knows their tables they’ll be prepared for the advanced stuff. You would not believe how many kids reach high school without basic addition, subtraction, and multiplication--it is the fundamental root of so many kids failing math.

Now you know. And you can prevent it.

Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

Cheetah

El Guille came out of his room after bedtime tonight and told Other Half, "I think I want to run fast like a cheetah."


"OK, but you really need to go back to bed fast, like a cheetah."


"Would it be OK if I looked like a cheetah? Would that help?"


"What do you mean?"

Yes, he'd already used a black marker to color in spots.

Nice Neighborhood

My new house is in a nice neighborhood. It's a neighborhood that without the significant downturn in the housing market we would never have been able to afford (thanks, Giant Pool of Money and Credit Default Swaps!) The manse is not a small house and is in need of some updating. We will be doing this updating in tiny increments so as not to interfere with our giant string cheese budget.

The funny thing is, people assume all kinds of things about us and our neighborhood. All kinds of solicitors try to get us to do stupid stuff. There was a dude yesterday who was selling a service of moving pictures from film to CDs. Really? I can't even express this problem without my brain growing an aneurysm. You want us to pay you to do something that we could easily do ourselves? And you want us to pay you to move a format that we no longer use to a format that we no longer use? GOBSMACKED. When Other Half got after the solicitor, the dude responded with, "Well, everyone is selling something."
Other Half removed that notion from the dude's cranium using lots of fancy mean words and some growling. He'll turn this place into the 'hood, like his native Florida, before we know it. Just kidding. Other Half didn't live in the 'hood (but Florida is still a hole with no mountains and lots of insane people.)

Can we talk about the fliers rubber-banded to our door? We have a few every day. I wish I could count the number of fliers pitching plastic surgery that are attached to the handles. REALLY? I know I live in a fancy neighborhood, but come on. If your idea of marketing technology involves advertising by neon rubber-band fliers, I would never, not in a million years, use your plastic surgery skillz.

A rumor has floated around for years, I even heard it when I was a child, that our neighborhood hands out full-size candy bars. THIS IS NOT TRUE. Even if it was, we will not be handing out full-size candy bars, not even the gross ones. I think we are going the individual M&M route this holiday, maybe it will confuse the hordes of strangers (honestly, they unload by the van-full) who descend on our streets in search of a full-sized Kit-Kat. NEWSFLASH: Put three fun-sized Kit-Kats together and it's THE SAME as a full-size bar. Do the math, or knock on our door and ask Other Half to do the math for you.

On that note, I'm going to bed, before midnight, because Hell called and they saw flurries.

This is What I’m Doing Instead of Blogging: Reading Your Blog

Probably the most boring thing I could write about is how the sale of my condo and purchase of my house is going. The shortest thing I can say is that we’re currently engaged in NASA-level nail biting and professional finger crossing at the same time (which is killing my manicure, believe me.) We closed on the house today, but it’s not over yet, and we aren’t going to have news until Friday.

We had an hour this morning between 11am and 12pm that was one of the most stressful periods of my life, and that includes the time that we fought over whether or not our month-old family would be one of “those” families that had Christmas trees (His argument: Couldn’t we just drive around and look at lights? My argument: I WANT A DIVORCE.)

The next most boring thing I could write is how cute and awesome my kids are. But they just are, and you need to deal with that or stop reading this blog. Like how E.G. asked me tonight as we were walking up the stairs, “Do you hear the wind, mom?”
“Yes.”
“Those are just the words coming in from another state.”

DID YOU DIE? BECAUSE I TOTALLY DIED. And then I decided that he can also be a poet-philosopher along with an architect, physicist, engineer, neurosurgeon, and, if he has time, an ambassador.

I could also tell your bored self about how I made a fool of myself at Book Club 2 last night, including inappropriate references to an email forward I once received that had a picture of a fairy and a certain religious figure. Not Mohammad. And then how I tried to tell a story of something that happened at church the other week and instead of it coming out respectful, yet conscious of the inherent humor, it came out mean and nasty (which of course I am, but who wants to show that side to people?)

The last most boring thing I could write is how Other Half is watching Point Break, again.

It turns out that I’m flat-out boring.

You should probably just go find a chore chart instead of reading this.

All Sorts of Peeps of Easter Goodness (Right.)

We’ve been under hostile fire for more than a week. El Guille volleyed cough after barking cough across the room and dinner table. He coughed in our faces during TV-time begging, secret whispering, story time, and his (lately) crushing hugs. No surprise that by Saturday afternoon, J, Proximo, and yours truly were also coughing and sick.

Now, when I’m sick, I’m just sick. I try to carry on. You know, because there isn’t a dishes fairy. When J is sick, as we’ve covered before, the world should stop, shudder, and weep in his name. He is also grumpy. Guess who else is grumpy? The children. So what do I do when I’m sick and they’re sick? I’M THE REFERREE, which I just love. Haven’t had the lovely opportunity to mediate between an angry, decongestant-popping husband and a whiny, snot-dripping child? Well then, you just deserve a cookie, don’t you? The child ignores most of your pleading suggestions to knock it off, while your husband tries not to bellow at small infractions.

On Saturday night we took full advantage of our children’s inabilities to tell time and had dinner and then a bath an hour earlier. While in the tub, E.G. complained that his ear still hurt from when the pediatrician looked at it. He examined E.G. on Tuesday; this was Saturday.

What is an ear infection? Ding! (Sometimes I pretend like my life has a running quiz commentary.) Maybe that's why E.G. wasn't listening to me and made me repeat everything two or three times--he couldn't actually hear. I am such an awesome mom.

I broke the news to E.G. that we were going to the doctor:

“DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EAR HE WILL MAKE IT HURT MORE DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EARS YOU CAN'T PLEASE DON'T LET HIM!”

The nice PA examined E.G. and blessed him with both an ear infection and croup.

The croup?

That’s what that cough was?

The croup. That’s so Anne with an ‘e’. I declare, Marilla will have my hide if I don’t remember to return directly from the pharmacy with a new bottle of cordial. 

Oh, the pharmacy.  They handed me a bag filled with items and charged my card but didn't actually put the antibiotics into the sack, making us do an awkward double child hand-off and sending J back to the store at 11:13pm (just shy of his own inevitable and much prophesied demise) for the miracle liquid.

So that’s why I’m getting used to running the shower in the dark at 2:38 am while holding a barking child (reason 5,653,009 to not have a dog: children eventually stop barking with the right medication,) and that’s why the boys didn’t wear their Easter outfits on Sunday (but you can see their exact outfits on LJ’s cute boys, along with everything *cough* I totally would have done had we not been a cesspool of viral love,) and why I have to remember that being patient with sick children and sick husband is a skill that needs exercise.

Now, hand Mama a cookie.

I Feel Like Phoning Into This Blog Today

“Hey blog, so uhm, how’s it going?”

“Good. It’s good. Yeah…good.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“Listen, uh, it’s been like over a week since you last posted something.”

“Oh really, it doesn’t really seem like a week.”

“Over a week.”

“Right, well, who’s counting?”

“I am. Look, do you remember back in the day before you used Google Reader?”

“I think so, gosh it’s been years.”

“Do you remember refreshing people’s blog pages and checking constantly for them to update?”

“I didn’t really have a lot to do at work back then, so I vaguely remember that.”

“Well you were all, 'I hate when people go a week without updating, I mean seriously, is it that hard to just write something?'”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, nice Judgey McJudgerson. Guess the stiletto is on the other foot now, isn’t it?”

“I meant to write something, really, I did.”

“Right.”

“No seriously. I had this whole post planned the other night about how I hate red roses with baby’s breath and how my husband gets them every year for me. And how he called me on the phone as I was leaving work to suggest something…”

“Go on.”

“Well, I have to save what he suggested, because it was pretty good. And by pretty good I mean it made me so angry I couldn’t see straight. I fumed as I drove to the grocery store. A lesser writer would have told you that they ‘literally’ fumed to emphasize how upset they were, but I am not and have never been in danger of spontaneous combustion, nor am I on fire.”

“Oh yeah, we all know what a ‘great’ writer you are.”

“Shut it. Like I was saying, as soon as I walked into the store there were 30 arrangements of red roses and baby’s breath and it was like ZEUS HIMSELF WAS IN LEAGUE WITH MY HUSBAND TO CAUSE ME ANGUISH and frustration at the general lack of floral integrity in this world.“

“And…”

“I went to Cooking Club and got all the rage out in front of them instead.”

“They don't want to hear your narcissistic take on flowers. What else did they say?”

“I think they were generally shocked at my level of outrage. It probably seemed a little over the line. But then Nemesis made a rape of Nanking joke and I collapsed into giggles.”

“Hardly seems a joking matter.”

“Guess you had to be there.”

"Clearly."

The Only Thing Worse Than a Smug Married Couple...

What is your husband’s name?

I am contractually obligated by a non-disclosure agreement to never reveal this information.

How long did you date? Long enough to make everyone we know nervous.

How old is he? Older than me—HA!

Who eats sweets? What, seriously?

Who said I love you first? I have no idea. I don’t remember trivial things like that. Now, if you want me to compete in a Seinfeld quiz, you got it!

Who is taller? Do you honestly believe I’d marry ANYONE with whom I could not wear heels?

Who can sing better? He sings bass and I sing alto. I refuse to turn that into a question of value.

Who is smarter? I like to say that we’re smarter at different things. For example, I can dress myself in the morning and not look like a complete dork. He is planning world domination, so, toss up.

Who does the laundry? He complains that the feel of the fabrics are too irritating to his delicate constitution (that is not a joke.)

Who pays the bills? Is this some sort of post-modern judgment on the equality of our genders? Because I won't hear it and I won't respond to it.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Look, I could sleep anywhere, but Princess Pea over there gets disoriented if he’s not on the left.

Who mows the lawn? What, are you insane? We live in a loft so that neither of us has to deign to ‘mow the lawn.’ The very idea…

Who cooks dinner? This quiz is tiresome.

Who drives? We both drive, this ain’t Riyadh, Omar.

Who is the first to admit they are wrong? Neither of us is ever wrong.

Who kissed who first? I don’t remember; it was dark.

Who asked who out first? He asked me out, because he, unlike most men with whom I was then surrounded, understood intuitively that if you don’t ask a girl out, it’s harder to get what you want out of them.

Who wears the pants? Is this metaphorical or literal?

Friends who should do this: I wouldn’t dare to presume.

Yes, It's a 'Discussion' Every Year

Every year my scrooge husband tries to talk me out of putting up a Christmas tree.

This started the first year we were married. Only a month after we tied the knot, we had our first huge argument over whether or not we would get a tree. Like this is even a fight.

"Why don't we just drive around and look at the lights at night instead?" he said.

Are you serious? (He was.)

I called my mother in law about it and she said,

"I bet you wish you'd known that about him before you got married, don't you?"

Yes, I did, I do.

Talk about a deal breaker.

A few years, OK every year, I had to go to the lot and pick the tree, get it in the car, haul it home and up the stairs, and put it up, all alone.

I bought a silver tinsel tree on sale in June one year and now it's no sweat to put it up by myself, which is good, since it's halls decked by one.

Tonight, after a hard couple hours of Rock Band-ing left us snug and tired on the couch, Other Half breathed a sigh.

"We didn't put up the tree today," he said.
"Nope."
"And we can't put it up tomorrow."
"Why?"
"No working on the Sabbath."
"I'd hardly call putting up the tree working."
"Huh."
"Oh, but I didn't get any sand to put in the base, so we have to wait for Monday."
"That means it will be December when we finally put up the tree, right"
"Yes."
"It hardly seems worth it in that case."

Just ignore him.

Fa la la la la.

My husband did something yesterday that he's never done. Never, at least, in the 13 years that I've known him.

He went to a bookstore, he bought a book, and then he read it.

Miracles never cease.

All MacGyver'd

Tonight I ran into a very 21st century problem: my DVR was overbooked. I wanted to record both my regular Thursday shows and the football game. What was I to do? And then I remembered something..

"Hey self?"
"Hmm what? I'm busy."
"No, self, listen, remember that silver box in your room?"
"What, huh?"
"You know, the TV you bought your boyfriend in 1995 because you were sure you were getting married to him and didn't want to be one of those newlyweds without a TV?"
"Vaguely. Is that the one with the awesome wood paneling?"
"Yes, now focus, there's a silver box next to it, do you remember what it does?"
"Weren't we supposed to go to something today? Or was it cleaning the car? What's our position on sheet changing again?"
"THE VCR!"
"The what? Oh, right, VCRs...huh...we still have one of those?"
"Yes, silver box, and we need to use it."
"Uh, I don't think I remember how. And didn't our husband throw out all the video tapes? They're video tapes, right? That's what they were called?"
"Oh crap, you're right."
" 'When are we ever going to use these?' he said, 'Can you possibly think of a situation where we are going to sit down and watch Ishtar?' he said. Look who's wrong now."
"It doesn't matter, you are a terrible, forgetful housekeeper and there HAS to be a video tape someplace in this house that you can use to record ABC's prime time lineup."

I/we rummaged through the house and HA! I found a tape of The Pianist; it's the only remaining VHS in this humble abode.

I remember making an argument that I couldn't throw away The Pianist because I'd never even opened the package since it came home with me for free as part of a DVD rental special. (I don't know why, but Ishtar came home with me the same way and I didn't fight for it. Nothing personal, Ishtar, but one of you movies has to be the Sophie's Choice in this tale.)

From the deep reached of my subconscious I remembered: Being a legitimate movie, this VHS would have copy-protection, and I know how to get around it.

Oh yeah, remember the tape trick?

I am so cool.
(And so are you if you remembered how.)





Turns out I probably shouldn't have recorded the football game; it gave me heartburn and a serious case of the snotty "I-Told-You-So's" from Other Half.


Oh, and here's my broken pinky toe for those of you who love to engage in a little schadenfreude (don't deny it, it makes you seem cheap.)


I'll throw in the baby just for kicks.

That's Your Master Plan?

This morning as I was tidying up the kitchen, I noticed some nice stationary in the trash. The stationary was sitting right at the top, so I took it out. Imagine my surprise when it was an invitation, an invitation to a joint birthday party for some friends, a birthday party that took place last Thursday.

I know I’m a little distracted sometimes, but honestly, how could I have received an invitation, admired the paper, opened it, and not actually remember to attend or even send regrets, and then thrown the invite in the trash?

I did the only reasonable thing: I hid the invitation and waited to spring the evidence on the prime suspect.

In the middle of the second season of Extras, I tossed the invitation casually to Other Half.

“What’s that?”
“You found that?”
“Yes. Do you want to explain?”
“Well, I got it from outside the door and put it on top of the entertainment center for later. And then I forgot about it.”
“I found it in the garbage. Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to find out?”
“Uh….” He said in a sheepish voice.

For the record, if you want to communicate with me, never use my husband as an interface. Do not leave phone messages with him (he never remembers phone calls,) do not leave a note with him (it will stay in his coat pocket,) do not give him information face-to-face because he will not even remember who he talked to, let alone your message.

I have committed to re-up for at least one more year, however, because he cleans a mean house and is a human calculator. There’s something to be said about being married to a mathematician, just don’t expect him to pass it along.

"Warmly Enthusiastic and Imaginative"

We decided to take a personality test at work a few weeks ago. On a technology team where I am the only girl, I’m also the only extrovert, and that is the way I like it. I can be the center of attention, as it should be.

I talked Other Half into taking the test the other night. Normally he would be beyond such tomfoolery, but there is nothing on TV right now (even poker is in repeats.) I know this might shock you all, but we’re almost complete opposites. Other Half naturally thinks that his personality is the best. He can't help it, it's his personality. I don’t attach any value judgments on his, or on your personalities for that matter (that's so ENFP.)

I watched him take the test over his shoulder. On the question, Do you think you’re weird, he selected 'no.' I almost laughed out loud. Not only do people think he's weird, some people don't even think he exists!

Afterward, we compared notes. Sure enough under Other Half’s description it said, “You don’t think you are weird, but others find you so.” It also mentioned that he tends to think his way of approaching the world is right and that he is constantly looking to see how all the rest of us can improve. This is true. I am his project. I don’t really like that I’m his improvement project (considering that there’s a faucet that needs installed if he’s looking for a project) but I’ve learned that he thinks he needs a project. Whatever.

In my list were things like “spontaneous, outgoing, empathetic” and then followed by “easily distracted.”

HEY

“Wild and crazy, acts without thinking, likely to have or want a tattoo, unprepared, prone to fantasy...”

FINE, be that way.

(I don’t have a tattoo)

(I don’t even WANT a tattoo.)

"Look," Other Half crowed, “Disorganized!” His face beamed with vindication.

"I know. See, I can't help it, it's just my personality. However, just because you don’t value these facets doesn’t mean that they’re not legitimate personality traits that can serve a purpose."

"WHAT? It says irresponsible! No one wants to be irresponsible!"

"But..."

"No one proudly admits to being irrational!"

"Humph," I said.

So dear reader, do you need a project? Are you prone to fantasy?

What are you?

Tell me more!

Just Call Him Aaron Burr

Other Half called me at work from the side of the road, “I can’t drive my car. It started shuddering, so I pulled over and now the wheel won’t turn.”

I looked up the garage online and called to have a tow truck sent to pick up the car.

This, apparently, was hilarious.

“You wear the pants, you totally wear the pants,” My boss, TT, laughed.

“No, if anything we wear them equally and sometimes he wears them more than me,” I said.

“There’s no way I would call my wife if my car broke down, but she would call me!” he insisted.

“It just makes sense that he would call me,” I said, “I’m the one in front of the computer to look up the number. Besides, you know he’s not a car guy, what’s he going to do? Get out and look?”

“But would your first call be to him if you were stranded?” he insisted.

“Depends, if it was in the middle of the school day? I couldn’t call, he’d be in class, I’d call a friend,” I said, thinking I was being most logical.

TT howled.

For the next two hours he conducted an informal survey.

“Hey,” he’d ask every one who stepped into our office, “If your car broke down on the road, who would you call first?”

“But would you call your wife?” he’d respond to any answer.

I still think it made sense; I’m the one with the computer.

The next day the garage called to tell us the problem was fixed (two new front brakes.) TT said, “Hey, I bet Other Half would fall for the old ‘headlamp fluid’ joke.”

“He’s not going to fall for it.”

“Yes he will, he called you from the side of the road.”

“First of all, again, it makes sense; I was the one next to the computer. Second, he’s not an idiot: he doesn’t know a lot about cars, but he’s never had a problem with his car because his ‘headlamp fluid’ was low. Third, it’s a lamp, with electricity, why would there be fluid?”

“I bet you 10 dollars he will fall for it, and if you win, you don’t owe me anything.”

“DEAL,” I said, squarely and dialed Other Half.

“Hey, honey, the garage said that the car is done. They also mentioned that they’d top off our headlight fluid for and extra 10 bucks if we wanted them too.”

“What? They’d top off what?”

“The headlight fluid.”

“Uh, there’s no such thing as headlight fluid.”

“There isn’t?”

“No, first of all it’s a light, and second…look, there’s just no such thing as headlight fluid.”

I stifled a giggle.

“OK, well then, I’ll tell them we don’t want it.”

“Uh, good.”

And that’s when I made TT fork over the 10 bones.

Right after that is when I found a safety pin and pinned the Hamilton to my shirt. I needed to make sure that people would ask me why I had 10 bucks on my shirt so I could explain to them how I took TT’s money.

How should I spend those greenbacks?

Mini Salon

I sound like Selma and Patty from the Simpsons. My husband laughs at me. I’m prone to dry hacking fits and bloody noses. If you’re thinking I’m a hot mess, you’d be right.

"It hurts to talk," I squawk in a vain impersonation of Mariah Carey's octave range, "I can't talk anymore."
"I've been waiting ten years to hear you say that," Other Half counters.

All this not being able to talk is really throwing a wrench into Other Half’s and I’s scintillating late night conversations. On deck tonight: square roots and their squares, types of proofs, and psychedelic root canals.

We really do have discussions and debates about the most interesting stuff.

Sometimes we sink a little and snicker at pop culture. Baby Proximo was the judge for who could do the best Seinfeld impression while holding a toy bee from B Movie. The baby swiveled his little round head between us as we giggled. I don’t think Proximo has the best frame of reference for judging impressions, but for the record, I won (I’m the ringer.)

Last night we howled at a guy on Charlie Rose who informed us that Barack Obama was “literally formed from pieces of John F. Kennedy and Bobby Kennedy.” “GROSS!” I croaked. “He’s undead?” said Other Half, which really raised Obama in his esteem. Then we spent the next five minutes doing Frankenstein monster impressions.

We don’t like it when people say “literally” and mean “figuratively.”

Sadly, I’ve lost my sense of taste. Other Half is overjoyed, “Finally! You can’t taste food and I don’t care!” I made risotto and I have no idea how it really tasted. I couldn’t test the salt levels, or the cheese levels, or the anything. “You can make food like I like it,” He insists. “What? Like mashed potatoes and a hunk of meat?” I say snidely.

We poke fun at each other’s palates.

(But I do want my sense of taste back; I have a box of Belgian chocolates waiting for me that will just taste like shortening if I try to eat them now.)

We do Valentine’s best when I tell him what I want and he gets it for me.

What did I get him? Only the most romantic present on earth…

a second guitar for Guitar Hero so we can play together.

Math-Zone vs. Home-Zone

Other Half lives in Math-Zone, which is several dimensions removed from where the rest of us live. As a consequence, he isn’t that great with Home-Zone. I am the fix-it person, first, because I can actually see when something needs fixing; second, because I either know how to fix it or I will endeavor to find out. Occasionally, I’ll get fed up with being fix-it, and being in the mode of “teach a man to fish and he’ll fish for a lifetime,” I'll encourage Other Half to take on a project.

On Sunday, our furnace’s pilot light went out (maybe it went south.) My first hint was that it was frigid inside the house. The second hint, there was no actual light on inside the furnace. I really didn’t feel like lighting it, so I asked Other Half to do it.

He was having some trouble figuring out how to light it and called for my help. I yelled at him from under my blanket to read the panel for instructions. He couldn't figure it out. I grumbled while shivering--I didn't want to help him. After all, if I was going to get up from my frostbite prevention zone, I might as well have just done it myself. He asked again, and sounded so frustrated, I gave in to his pleas. When I went into the utility room, I found him in front of this:

Yes, trying to light the water heater’s pilot (which was already lit.)

Not this, which is what our FURNACE looks like.

Sigh.

What Have You Done?

Have you ever been desperate for chocolate?

Like really desperate for chocolate?

What have you done in the name of chocolate?

Have you, just for example, taken a fork and hammered it into the top of a box of chocolates until the container broke into fragments and then devoured the elixir of the gods inside without regard for the damage or detritus it would create?


OK, good, just checking.

*****************************************************

"We never eat meat anymore."
"What are you talking about? I just made you chicken yesterday."
"No, not chicken, meat, we never have meat anymore."
"I just don't feel like eating it, or cooking it. Plus, it's not that healthy to eat meat everyday."
Other Half makes a sad face.
"I miss eating meat."

I used to cook more meat than I do now. Other Half grew up in the 1950s. OK, not really, but it seems like it sometimes. Their idea of a dinner was a hunk of meat, potatoes, and a side salad (iceberg.) When we first got married I made my way through the Betty Crocker cookbook, like most newlyweds, and fixed one boring meat-feast after another. Since then, I've gradually reduced the meat that we eat. First, out of necessity as we were poor college students, and then out of apathy to the flesh.

I bought a couple steaks yesterday, thinking I'd be nice to him, for once. I made my steak medium and gave half to El Guille. I guess Other Half's was a little thicker, so his was medium rare. Frankly, medium rare is the way to eat steak, if you're going to eat it, but not to Other Half.
He cut the steak in half and then he...
put

it

in

the

microwave.

See? I'm not sure if I'm more upset that I am eating meat or that a nice piece of meat was treated so badly. I ate half my steak in solidarity, but I just didn't feel like it.

I really am of two minds about meat. On the one hand, sometimes I like a nice steak, pulled pork, and BBQ chicken. On the other, I don't like eating it very often and if I had the choice, would rather not eat it at home. I'm not morally opposed to meat, after all I own and wear vintage furs, I just think we eat too much of the stuff.

As much as some husbands would be supportive if their wife decided to go veg, it is Other Half's living nightmare.

"I just haven't felt like eating meat lately. If I could go vegetarian I think I would."
"I know you're leaning that way and that terrifies me," He said sincerely.

The other problem is that Other Half is so stupid picky about vegetables, you'd think they were popcorn. The no list on veggies (artichokes, asparagus, brussels sprouts, etc.,) is extensive. It's hard to sit across the table from a four-year-old and be a hypocrite, so to Other Half's credit, he eats more vegetables now than he ever did before. If I decide to go veg, I'd be fixing two meals a night. Frankly, it's rare enough that everyone will eat the first meal I cook, let alone a vegetable-based second meal.

Have you and a significant other grown apart in culinary matters?

Have you ever been the only carnivore at the family table?

The only vegetarian at the party?

Do You Speak Math?

If it feels a little like I'm living with a math genius over here, that's because I am.

Have you seen Good Will Hunting? My life is a lot like that--except no one is doing any janitorial work. We put a blackboard up in our living room and put two unsolvable problems up on it; one for each of us. Other Half's is some sort of math equation or string, or jumble (I'm not sure of the technical term) that for sure will solve the looming credit crisis and the Western water issues once he finally figures it out. On my side is something about pinning down the emergence of the middle class and the industrial transition (history jokes just kill.)

"I really want to teach you calculus," He says to me sweetly. I know, other girls get flowers, some girls get vacations, still others see their love manifest in paper globes. In my house, I get propositioned by both real and imaginary numbers (I don't know what that means.)

What is it like being married to a mathematician? It's almost like being married to the grammar police, but worse. For instance, you might be used to saying something like, "That makes it exponentially harder." Other Half will look at you and roll his eyes because you used exponentially incorrectly. Do not ask me to use exponentially correctly, because apparently I rarely do.

It's not that I don't love living with a math-lete, I do. I have my very own personal calculator and logician at my beck and call. Your spouse might remember to change a lightbulb, do the dishes, or bathe, but mine can turn everything into a equation. How do you like 'dem apples?




*******************************************

In other news, guess who's crawling? Well, really, that's pretty much a gimme, isn't it? While three of us are perfectly capable of crawling yet choose not to, the fourth finally figured out forward motion. Proximo was able to correct the backwards crawl that so frustrated him for three weeks, "HEY, I want to go THERE and instead I'm HERE so PICK ME UP because this is HARD and I just CAN'T why am I getting FARTHER away I'm SO OVER THIS HEY HEY HEY I'm STUCK under the couch! I CAN'T DEAL!"

Anyone have any brilliant ideas on how to keep a Christmas tree safe from an aggressive crawler-grabber (he's so into multi-tasking)?


I saw this in the holiday issue of Blueprint; it's Amy Butler's Christmas Tree. I love how she put the base into a sand-filled vase. I don't know if that will foil Grabber McGee.

What should you eat on the first weekend of October?

Pumpkin Pancakes!

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons brown sugar
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 can of evaporated milk (12 ounces.)
  
• 1 cup pumpkin puree
• 1 egg
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 2 tablespoons vinegar

If you have time, process the pumpkin with about 1/3 can of milk in the food processor to break up the fibers, if you don't, just stir together the wet ingredients. Whisk dry ingredients together (you can do pumpkin pie spice if you want.) Add wet to dry and stir until just combine. Allow batter to rest while griddle is heating. Batter will be fluffy. Drop batter onto the grill, spread out with a butter knife or spatula. These take a little longer than regular pancakes to cook. Turn once until both sides are golden. Serve with maple syrup....

...and if you're us, with whipped cream stars too.



One of my favorite toys is my whipped cream dispenser. I have wanted one for a long time, but couldn't justify spending the cash, because honestly, a whipped cream dispenser? I saw one at my mother-in-law's, so fancy, so pretty, so...Austrian.

One day a package arrived at the door. Inside the package was not only this fancy aluminum dispenser but a candy apple red soda dispenser as well. The cream dispenser is wonderful, you can place a pint of sweetened cream with a drop of Mexican vanilla inside and it stays whipped for a week. No more separating cream, or throwing away excess.

I still haven't used the soda dispenser...any ideas?

El Guille approves of pumpkin pancakes.

Oh no! What's that we hear? Sounds like Proximo is awake.


It's time to play, Little Sleepy-Face.

In other news, my sister Jeffiner works for a law firm.

All last week when clients were calling for appointments, she didn't schedule a single one for Monday. Why? Because it said 'Holiday' on her calendar. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because it was Columbus Day. Who besides banks close on Columbus Day?*
The lawyer at the firm looked at his calendar and said, "Hey, we don't have any appointments, do you think we should close for Columbus Day?" Jeffiner printed up the signs for the doors posthaste.

So, if you are needing a holiday, go ahead and enforce one.

In other-other news,
Happy Birthday, Other Half!
You're older than me!
(still and always.)

*Should we even celebrate Columbus Day anymore? I'm having survivors guilt. Wait, no, you're having survivor's guilt. Someone should be feeling guilty, I think. It was my ancestors' monies that paved the way for Columbus. So, uhm, thanks for all the gold and silver, Xochitl Girl, and for the land ~j, Can we still be friends?

I know you are shocked and appalled to learn that things are a little crazy on the Jet Set Front. Quel surprise!

For one, the food wars between me and Other Half have reached an almost impasse. Seriously, guys, I'm not a bad cook.

Things I have cooked lately that Other Half has turned up his nose to:

Peanut Sesame Noodles (see above)
Lettuce Wraps (just like PF Changs)
Chicken in green chiles and tomatillo sauce
Mac & Cheese (homemade)
Provençale chicken stew

That's just the tip of the iceberg, folks, just what I can recall at 12:57am on a Tuesday morning.

I made the lettuce wraps a few weeks ago. We'd happily eaten them as a family several times in the past. This time, Other Half wrinkled up his nose (uh-oh) and said, "What's in these?"
I said, "What has been in them every other time."
"Yeah, but what?"
"Chicken, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots...and I hesitate to even tell you this but since you asked and you've eaten them in this dish before, mushrooms."
"I'm not eating these"
"BUT the ingredients are the same, you've eaten the finely diced mushrooms and been FINE with them EVERY OTHER TIME."

Both he and El Guille turned up their noses. I was so angry that I threw whatever piece of crockery I had in my hand onto the table, took the crying baby, and went to my bedroom to chill. Later, I emerged to eat my meal in piece and quiet. I ignored the philistines in the living room and ate at the table, by myself.

Sorry, still upset about that one.

Today it was the Provençale chicken stew. Chicken thighs, potatoes, canned tomatoes in juice, fresh veggies including peppers, basil, thyme, oregano, rosemary, and 1/4 c. of red wine. Simmer in crock pot for 5-8 hours. Serve with crusty bread for mopping up. Very delicious.

"What's in this?"
"Chicken, veggies, you can pick out the tomatoes because I left them in large chunks..."
"It smells funny. I just don't like it, it tastes weird."
"...and a little of the red wine that Hope is Power gifted us."
"The sooner you stop cooking with wine, the better, I don't like the way it tastes."


Macaroni with cheese: imported Italian elbow pasta, cheddar cheese, Gruyere (this time I used Fontina) cheese, a little bit of onion to flavor the roux.
"There's something wrong with this mac & cheese."
"Oh? I used Fontina instead of Gruyere this time."
"Yeah, I don't like it."
"But you liked Fontina the other night when I used it on our mini-pizzas!"
"I don't like it."
"Ok, so you'd prefer that I go back to Gruyere"
"Well, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. How about we have mac and cheese with just cheddar?"
"..........."
"Plus, there's too much onion. We need to lay off the onion"

Onions? ONIONS are going on the "bad" list now? I just can't deal...

I am thisclose to giving up completely.

I can cook for me, everyone else in the house can starve for all I care.

They can eat their...I DON'T KNOW what they will eat since everything is off limits. It makes me want to make a meal from sour cream and blue cheese covered in ketchup, mustard, with balsamic dressing, mushrooms, and vegetables.
I've gotten so tired of it, I've even filled up the kitchen table with mail and various other to-be-sorted items. I don't even want to set a table if I'm going to get grief out of it.

There's a scene in She's Having A Baby where Newlywed Elizabeth McGovern has made dinner out of several different types of fish. Kevin Bacon kind of pushes the fish around on his plate. She didn't know what kind of fish he liked, so she just made a bunch of them. Kevin Bacon pokes at one piece in particular and asks what it is. "Grouper. It's grouper," she says.
I remember watching this scene with my dad years ago. "Just eat it," Dad whispered at the screen. Kevin Bacon moved more fish around on the plate. "JUST EAT IT," Dad nearly roared, trying to stop the on-screen couple from descending into the precipice of a marital spat.

That's what I want, I want people to just eat it. JUST EAT IT.

Do you ever get tired of cooking?
For one? For two? For seven?

I wish we could live by bread alone, it might go down night after night as a smashingly successful meal.